A Small Belief
by drinktea
Summary: Balthier and Fran cross paths with one of Balthier's remaining blood relatives. They get to talking. Since when were you an optimist? Postgame.


_Disclaimer: Fran, Balthier, Cid, Venat and Vayne are Square's. Firin is mine._

Author natterings: This was originally meant to be a light-hearted humour story, but it seems I can't help but toss in seriousness. I'll probably manage humour somewhere down the road...  
If you've read the disclaimer and know of Firin (name modified off of FFII! Whoo!), his identity is revealed in the story. Don't worry, his personality is original, but I _have_ based him off of FFXII fact.  
I'm quite split on how I've handled this piece, so feedback would be nice.

**A Small Belief**

There was nothing particularly special about the inn at Bervenia. Nice, crisp beds. The smell of soap and fresh flowers. And, best of all, especially after a hell of a day, a well-stocked bar.

"Have you ever had tonic water, Fran?" Balthier asked her, a tankard of sensisble (if anything alcoholic could be called that), masculine beer between his hands.

"No," Fran replied. She tilted her own drink to her lips. She didn't know why, but the taste of blueberry liquer as the sun set reminded her of Mjrn. Her sip was small and civilized, a grace impossible for humans to achieve in tandem with any sort of alcohol consumption.

Balthier shook his head, his earrings swaying. "Terrible stuff. I'd advise you never to try it."

It was then that a large, warm hand clapped down on Balthier's shoulder, accompanied by a voice: "It's not all that bad, Ffamran. Take it with something else."

Balthier didn't flinch, not even at the familiar voice and the name that had been uttered by it. His dead name. Thoughts of horrid tonic water dissipated from his mind. "Firin," he acknowledged, not unpleasantly. He turned in his stool and leaned against the bar to nod at the man.

He was the same height as before, the exact same height that Balthier was by now. His clothes had been replaced by more sturdy armours, the cuffs of his shirt were worn (Balthier would be the one to notice this immediately, of course). He looked in need of a haircut. "I think what I'm supposed to say now, is: what, no hello?"

The skypirate glanced sideways at his beer and wrapped his fingers around the handle. "What has brought you to Lesalia, Firin?" he asked.

"Eight years, and all you can say is that? I'd have thought a hero would have a better way with words. Not to mention you've got the blood of a Bunansa."

Balthier coolly raised an eyebrow.

Firin squinted in response, almost in relief at Balthier's reaction. "Well. I suppose you've gotten a little wiser, Ffamran. Or do you prefer Balthier?"

"Balthier." Balthier's palm was now pressed into the tough leather of his pants.

"Right," Firin responded absently, scoping the bar for a place to sit. He found a seat available next to a Viera, who was also sitting next to Ffam-- Balthier.

"Excuse me, miss." He tapped her shoulder politely. In the background of this all, Balthier raised both eyebrows.

Firin had both hands behind his back now, a testament to the manners he had learned so many years ago. "Would you terribly mind relocating? I'd like to speak to my brother."

Fran turned in her stool to look at her partner's brother who obviously didn't know that she was his brother's partner. (She thought their dress was a giveaway, but apparently not.) She sized him up quickly, the kind of snap assessment she made in battle. In the background of this all, Balthier's face landed in his palm.

"Of course," Fran told Firin.

"Firin, this is my partner, Fran," Balthier told Firin.

"What?" said Firin.

"_This is my partner. Fran_," Balthier repeated, holding back an eyeroll. He wanted to mumble under his breath, "_She could probably have you in a headlock in two seconds. Fran._" But he didn't.

Fran was currently relocating to the empty stool one down, sliding her mostly empty drink with her.

Firin still stood in place, badly hiding his befuddlement. "Your partner?" He looked at Fran again, though he didn't really need to, wondering how the mechanics of _that_ relationship would work...

But then he realized how gross it was to think of his brother that way. Ughhh.

"Yes." Balthier eyed Fran now, but knew better than to tell her to move back and let the numbskull stand.

Firin looked at Fran again. Fran, passively bored and reading the labels of all the wine bottles lining the opposite wall with her supercharged eyesight, offered no explanation.

Balthier's answer reached him from far away.

"Are you gonna sit down?" a young, irritable female inquired of him, obviously looking to sit and possibly flirt with Balthier.

"Oh. Yes," he said, but not in answer to her. He sat down solidly in Fran's old seat, his knees bent. The seat was still warm. He had seen what the Viera was wearing though, and felt strangely awkward to be in contact with what..._her behind_ had also been in contact with. A-hem.

Balthier had downed most of his _sensible_ beer by now, _sensing_ that he would need it.

Firin chose to focus on more important matters, brushing off the silly girl. He signalled to the bartender, then settled in. "So, Balthier."

Balthier caught a quick glance at him from the corner of his eye.

"I've heard many stories as of late. The bounty on your head is certainly in a jumble." Firin linked his fingers together, elbows on the counter. He tilted his head in the direction of his third brother, mixed emotion in his eyes. "How'd you do it, little brother? How did you save Rabanastre?"

Balthier leaned back in his chair under the façade of stretching out his legs. Firin ordered two beers.

Balthier responded, voice as even as ever, "Do you mean to say: how did I kill father?"

Balthier didn't give his brother enough credit. To his surprise, Firin merely exhaled sharply through his nose amd involuntarily raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose they're one and the same."

He was silent for a good while. Even when the barkeep slid over a fresh beer, Balthier's eyes were the only thing that shifted. Firin, for his part, took a big gulp of his drink while Balthier thought.

Then his voice came, sounding nearly unaffected. "Not without difficulty."

Firin nodded sagely. "If you'd said there was no difficulty in doing so I'd call you a bastard."

Balthier shifted his weight in his seat. His voice was distinctly grim now. "Well, I didn't say it was too difficult either."

His brother's voice took on an extra level of sympathy. "If it was, I'd say you weren't right in doing it." He looked from Balthier now into the middle distance. "I think it took someone close enough to him to see how far he'd gone."

Silence was offered as agreement.

"You know, brother, I have to say I'm a bit envious."

Balthier looked up from the counter and into Firin's eyes, a dark weight between them both. "That you couldn't be the one to kill him?"

Firin only gave a slight smile.

Balthier bowed his head again and took a small sip. The beer was strong, bitter. "Well, you always were a bit of a nutjob," laughter laced the words.

Firin laughed back. "And you always _did_ play the hero." It might've been his imagination, but he could've sworn he'd heard an amused scoff. He turned around, only to see Fran finishing up her drink. Huh. He turned back to Ffam-- Balthier.

"Seems kind of impossible, doesn't it?" _That you could have killed father._

"Nothing is impossible, Firin," Balthier replied. Though he was running his thumb along the rim of his tankard, it was easy to see - he was serious.

Firin laughed in the face of his seriousness. "Since when were you an optimist?"

Balthier looked up. He rubbed his thumb against the pair of rings on his left hand. "It's not so much optimism as it is a small belief."

Firin raised his eyebrows, his understanding growing broader. "When did you adopt this belief?"

"Not so long after I left the doctor." The reply was sparse, easily dismissed. But Firin almost narrowed his eyes at his brother's certainty.

"And you live your life by this?" Firin worked hard to conceal the condescension in his tone.

"We both do," he replied. Firin was thrown for a moment - both? But then he remembered, sitting just to his right...

Balthier nodded, just once. He was satisfied that he had avoided any deeper discussion. He stood suddenly. Where his face had been partially revealing of his emotions before, it was now closed off without question. "Well. It's been a long day, some rest is in order. Fran?"

In that exotic businesswoman tone of hers, Fran replied, "In a while."

Balthier nodded. And to Firin he nodded as well. "I'll see you later."

"In the morning, before we head our seperate ways." The fact that neither had asked where the other was going was simple and mutually agreed upon long before.

As Balthier headed out - garnering a few looks from the waitresses - Firin held back a sigh. He said to himself, under his breath, "Lucky bastard," though with not much conviction.

"I beg to differ," said a solid Fran.

Firin looked up, surprised. "I'm sorry?"

Her voice was a sophisticated kind of scratchy. "Not true." Quietly, "Never true."

He was quieted by her quiet voice. "Oh?" he said politely and with concealed interest, though she could surely hear it anyway. "If you'll permit, how so?"

Fran looked at him through her eyelashes. With any other female the action might have been seductive, but Fran didn't think that way. She raised her face to him. "Balthier harbors no malice toward you, so I will tell you.

"The battle with the doctor and his guardian was second in difficulty only to the Solidor. The others asked him not to fight, to let each one of them go in his place--"

"And you?"

Fran tilted her head a smidgen to the side, not seeming bothered by his interrupting at all. "I would have fought in his place, but it was not needed. He wished to fight the doctor himself. He did truly experience difficulty in fighting against the doctor... his expression was not as usual."

"So why fight at all?" Firin asked. It was clear - at least to Fran - that he was not testing for Balthier's motives. He was testing Fran. Her insight, her bond with her partner.

Fran did not disappoint. She quoted him directly. "To cut his ties to the past."

Firin's chuckle was soft and humorless. "Why does everyone seem to want to do that these days?"

Fran regarded him with a perceptiveness rarely found at all. "Is that not what you desire - to be free? What are your reasons?"

"I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I told you it was fashionable?" He smiled - again, humorless - in an evasive manner that reminded her strongly of Balthier.

Without trying, she gave him no wiggle room. He knew it. Still, he tried.

"I'm sure Ff-- Balthier's told you some details of his past. He shared that past with me. Your insight is strong enough to draw some kind of conclusion."

Fran would have none of that. "Is that why you call Balthier by his old name?"

Silence.

"Well, I didn't know my brother liked them with a bite," Firin muttered, half to himself.

"Don't be mistaken," Fran said now, her voice flowing and distinct from the sounds of the bar readying to close. She stood, the low light winking off of her armour. "He knows why he wants to cut his ties. You... do not."

He twitched minutely at having this said aloud, at the realization that this woman saw through him in a mere half hour. "And what of you?" he asked her, his voice rising uncontrollably in pitch. "A Viera who left the Wood must have much to run from."

A hit below the belt, but Fran didn't blink. She moistened her lips and said, softly, almost disappointed, "My reason is the same as your brother's."

Firin kept his head slightly lowered, even as she walked past him to the exit, clearly signalling the end of their conversation.

... The same? Is that how they found each other?

"Fran."

She halted, put a hand to her hip out of habit, but did not turn around.

As he looked at her he seemed almost shaken, his foundations filled with small, tremulous cracks. His lips felt fat and loose. How could his brother rise to the occasion, become a hero, deserved or not? How did he find the detachment, the synchronization, the love, the hate, to kill their father and take the future? _Why did he strive for freedom, strive to cut the past away?_

"What... is his reason?"

She arched her neck in his direction. As she spoke the words, Firin could hear Balthier's voice in tandem, as if both believed in it so strongly the only way to say it would be together. They spoke it so reasonably, so unassuming, that it was clear - they lived it everyday.

"Because it is impossible."


End file.
